The Choosers and the Chosen: Chapter 3

The Choosers and the Chosen

Part 1: Chapter 3 - The Republican Knight

Caladus

“Your lunch has been waiting, my husband.” Countess Alexandre Gouville said with all the wifely love of an introverted cat. “It’s gone cold, as you were expected back an hour ago.”

“That’s fine,” Cal said less warmly than his food whilst he sat at the table with his family, “it will go well with the hot meal I’ve fed to hard workers.”

“With my money, my love.”

“And your generosity too, I hope.”

Alex snorted. “Reluctance, more like it, husband. I fear you’re going to destroy all our fortunes so that there’ll be nothing left for our lovely young boy.” She smiled sweetly at their son, Alfrick, who was busy looking down at his food.

“He’ll always have the chance to earn his own fortunes,” Cal said, looking at him as well, “and become a true hero of his day. I, as a loving father, want this to be the case.”

“While you make the masses think we owe them something, so that they might take everything from young Alf? You’re too kind and generous, my loving husband.” She said the last two words with such bitterness Cal began to wonder whether the cooks had taken all the sugar out of her rich dessert, which she and Alf had also already finished before Caladus had returned. The Countess was very bitter today.

He’d spent the previous night in the city of Eden, buying men food and drinks after their hard day’s struggle at work. In the morning, he went to some of the nearby villages to watch the workers, and gave a few coins to those who appeared to work hardest. He hated most nobles, as they did very little and got more than the actual hard-working men, who were stuck with their lot in life, unable to climb to the heights that Alfrick Dalmark would be able to reach, merely because of what their ancestors did. Caladus wanted the best for his son, but his son had to earn it. Everyone should earn what they have, he thought, rather than just grow up in either chains or silk.

He missed Sir Alfrick Laydes, whenever he walked the fields alone. Sometimes the older knight would go with him, and even give a few coins himself. Alfrick would always be quick to tell Cal not to dream of change, of course. “To give some a chance to glimpse that ideal world is a true kindness,” he would say, sometimes even more bitterly than Cal’s wife, “but we must always remember the world we live in, and do the duty we agreed to do.”

It was that great conundrum of Cal’s: whether to try and build a better world and betray society’s most vital laws, or to maintain his greatest principles of justice and order, even if it meant serving those he thought of as enemies. “Do the ends justify the means?” Caladus would ask his mentor every now and then, expecting for some unknown reason a different answer to the last.

“The ends never justify the means,” Sir Alfrick always replied, a sad smile on his worn face, “rather, they are defined by them.”

Caladus missed the knight’s wisdom. Perhaps he should have used more of it to discuss matters relating to having an utterly contemptuous wife.

“Are you listening to me?!” the Countess’ sharp voice cut in. “I told you to eat your food, so that we can get on with our lives!”

Caladus gave her one swift glare, then looked at his full, cold plate of food and sighed. “Get on with them, then,” he replied, “I’ve finished eating, anyway.”

...

The gardens of Staytley Castle were always pleasant in the summer, although the sound of the bustling capital city that had enveloped it often tended to spoil the peace and quiet.

The big green fields were split with stone pathways which themselves were lined with rosebushes. A gravel road led to the gate, while the other pathways led from Bennard’s Holdfast in the centre to the four other towers on each corner of the castle. There was a stone ring around the Holdfast and a pathway along the foot of every stretch of wall. There were gaps in the lines of rosebushes, so that one could walk onto the regularly-trimmed fields and admire the ponds and sit on the benches to enjoy the breeze, or whatever it was that self-indulgent nobles did. Caladus didn’t much care for any of it.

“That wasn’t fair!” The boy’s shout was high-pitched and annoying. Amidst the green grass, there was a circle of dirt under a fenced-off ring in which a ten-year-old Alfrick Dalmark had just knocked eleven-year-old Richard Billvey, heir to the County of Rittou, onto his noble young backside.

“It was allowed!” Alf argued.

“No it wasn’t,” Alex’s ward spat back, “Ed never said so!”

“Yes he did! And besides, it’s Sir Ed!”

Actually, it was Sir Eduard Randell, and he was standing near them in the ring, shaking his head at the both of them while they weren’t looking. When their young faces suddenly snapped in his direction, however, his face was swift to display its regularly-donned mask of a patient smile and fatherly eyes under his flaky grey eyebrows.

“Boys,” he said, barely loud enough for Cal to hear, “boys…” Caladus couldn’t hear the rest of what he was saying. Both Richard and Alfrick were facing away from him, as well, so he couldn’t observe their reactions. But Caladus didn’t particularly mind: he’d all but given up with caring about what his son was being taught. He had no control over it, anyway.

Then he remembered why he was out here in the gardens, sighed, and approached the ring.

“Sir Eduard!” Cal called out, only then realising that the old master-at-arms hadn’t finished speaking to the boys. “Sorry!” he added afterwards.

Sir Eduard looked up at the approaching knight and bowed his head in respect. “Sir Caladus.”

Still no ‘my lord’, I see. Cal recognised the slights. He was rather certain that his wife was behind everyone simply addressing him by name as if they had no allegiance towards him – which was true, whether by Cal’s standard’s or the law’s, as they were all hired and paid for by Alexandre. Sir Eduard was lucky Cal didn’t care for aristocratic manners, else it would soon be the King’s First Swordsman knocking the Countess’ master-at-arms onto his arse in the dirt. Perhaps it would be the new Protector of the Chosen, even. I am the best, after all.

“I was wondering if I could talk to Alf.” Caladus said.

“Very well,” Sir Eduard replied, a different kind of smile in his eyes to the one on his lips, “you are my lady’s husband, after all.” Smug bastard.

“Yes, father?” Alfrick spoke to Caladus as if he was reciting a well-rehearsed line to an honoured guest rather than speaking to the man that had reluctantly made him. At least honoured is better than loathed. Alfrick Dalmark was mostly a good boy, Caladus couldn’t deny. He looked too much like his mother, but that was of little consequence. Appearance was just as important as blood when it came to determining who a person was. It was Princess Luciara Eden who’d taught him that lesson.

Alfrick had the green eyes that Cal once had, and the square jaw too. Otherwise he was his mother’s son, which wasn’t entirely a bad thing. He had a tiny pinch of a nose, but his eyebrows weren’t constantly frowning at everyone around, and his lips weren’t small and thin. But the real problem was that he was Alex’s son in a much bigger way than by mere appearance. Caladus barely saw him, as he was always busy guarding the royal family. Alexandre, as a countess, lady of the household and Alfrick’s mother, decided which tutors to appoint, what friends he had, and eventually, inevitably, what kind of a person he would become. Thus, young Alfrick Dalmark was surrounded by spoilt brats who took what they had for granted and learnt only to have nothing but disdain for those beneath them. Caladus only needed to think of the Chosen One to know where that would get them. At least Cal was taught the virtues of chivalry, much like Sir Alfrick was, and when he was the older knight’s squire he learned humility and empathy to those below him in status. He was very lucky to have Alfrick Laydes as his mentor. He wondered where the older knight got it from himself.

“Alf,” Caladus said to his son, “Alf…” Damn. What was he here to say again? Oh, yes, that’s it. “How are your studies going?”

At first, he looked at his son with as wide a smile as he could manage, but that soon became too much effort so he let his lips shrink back to a downwards curl. Smiling had become difficult a week after joining the Lion's Guard, and near-impossible a day after marrying Alex. I’ll never smile again if I am doomed to spend an hour beside the Chosen One. I’m the best…

“…and finally,” his son was saying, though Cal had missed most of his answer, “I’m learning about the Prophet Achilles Seriana in Philosophy. Bloody Achilles again? How very topical. Although…

“I wasn’t aware that he was a philosopher as well as a prophet.”

“He’s the Prophet, my tutor says.” I’m sure he does. “Anyway, his main teaching is that the future happens in the image that humanity decides.” Alfrick grinned, clearly proud he’d remembered.

“That humanity decides?” Cal mused the idea for a moment. “Hmm. Out of the mouths of babes indeed…”

“I’m sorry, father?”

“It’s a common phrase people say. I’m not sure who said it first, but it’s often proven true.”

“Oh.” Alfrick either wasn’t following or wasn’t interested. It might have been both. “The Prophet isn’t a babe.” he said.

“No,” Cal said, “he isn’t.” Well, this has gotten very awkward. There was a drawn-out pause. “Anyway,” Cal said, thinking of how to phrase his next sentence, “I’ve been wondering about this for a while, Alf, and I’ve finally decided to take you to see His Majesty the King.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “The King?”

Caladus tried stretching his mouth again, however much it hurt. “That’s right.”

“King Lucien the Second?”

“That is his name, correct.”

“The king you said was mad?”

“Er…yes.”

“The man you called ‘Lucien the Lunatic–”

“Yes, yes, His Majesty King Lucien the Second of Edainia, long may he reign and so on. I haven’t spoken to your mother about this yet, Alf, but as the times are changing, with Sir Alfrick Laydes fallen before you could become his page, I am adamant about this notion.” Adamant, though not particularly thrilled. “So, what do you say, Alf? If your mother allows it, then would you want to go and meet our sovereign in person? Perhaps even become his page, or even his ward?”

The boy chewed his lip for a moment, then opened his mouth, probably to ask a question. He said nothing, however, and instead he nodded his head and answered, “Yes, father, I will be delighted to attend.”

Caladus smiled, this time genuinely. “Excellent, I knew you would. Congratulations on your victory here, as well. You’re turning out to be like the knight you were named after.”

“Thank you, father.”

Cal felt a tap on his back, and turned to see a man in his late twenties. The man’s face was pale, his body tall and lean, his tangled hair the colour of dead grass. He had a sickly smile on his lips, which seemed to shiver constantly. Caladus smiled. Although Lucimon Eden, Simon, had the appearance of a frightened corpse, to Cal’s eyes his squire would always look a friend. He was dressed in a white gambeson with a black tunic over it. On the tunic were two teal dogs, each armed with white swords and red shields, crossing blades with one another. The Dalmark coat of arms. As Caladus was the fourth son of the mighty Duke Leopold of Arkendy the shields on his arms each contained a white four-pointed star. Why that was so important, other than for pride and battles, Caladus could never understand.

“Simon,” Caladus said, pleased to see his friend, “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

He noticed that in one pale hand the squire was holding a piece of rolled-up paper. Simon offered the paper to Caladus, who took it and inspected the seal. A blue lion, standing rampant, sword and shield in its hands, a crown just about clear on its head, though a little obscured. This was from the King himself, it seemed. He broke the seal and rolled the paper open. A royal command, no less. No more, either, but for some reason this man’s commands are more important than other people’s.

Caladus read the words, which were signed at the end with King Lucien’s signature:


         Sir Caladus Dalmark, Knight of the Lion’s Guard, King’s First Swordsman and Count Consort of Gouville,

         Come to the palace gardens at once or I’ll have your head on a spike.

         Signed,
         King Lucien Eden the Second of Edainia, Liege Lord of Sunset and Duke of Eden and Umbra.


Caladus sighed. He sighed again, deeply. Then, when he couldn’t be bothered to sigh any more, he told his squire to come and help him into his armour.

He was going back to the palace. For the millionth bloody time.

…

The Palace Gardens were full of colour, wealth, pride – and greed.

Rows of hedges, trees, flowers, and so on, painted a very elegant picture. The Legend's Tower emerging from the palace rose several levels upwards, and on either side of stain-glass windows every few feet up were the stone depictions of past kings and emperors that once ruled over the realm: Cedrik the Father, King of Mankind, at the base, with his descendants ascending the tower; Edrick Dragonflame further up, and the Dragonfire emperors around and above him; the failed king of the Dragonblood Kingdoms, Caemar Dragoncrown; the various kings of Rallenna, constantly switching between Clan Dragonclaw and Clan Dragonheart; until Freidon 'the Foul' of Umbra was finally displayed in stone statue form, vanquished under a throne which Lucidon the Legend was sitting on, right at the top of the tower. Even for Caladus, standing so close to that tower, with all its history, caused no insignificant feelings inside, even after so many years of doing it.

The rest of the palace and gardens were magnificent as well, with fountains and statues of great kings and mighty nobles, glass windows of different colours and walls of the finest stonework glowing brightly in the sunlight. But Sir Caladus Dalmark had seen the fields that men and women worked tirelessly in, and he thought of their suffering while he watched nobles gossip, and various young men and women dressed richly go off on their own, flirting with each other while those less fortunate were working hard to provide them with the food and clothes to maintain their elegant figures. As Caladus walked through the gardens behind his squire, he appreciated that at least their clothes were sensible for the weather: light cloths of various kinds, and summer dresses, with both men and women usually sporting fans or hats to keep themselves cool. Caladus, meanwhile, was dressed in his armour, baring only his head. Padded leather and thick steel encasing his body, he found himself perspiring to the point where he was sure salty water would pour out of his gauntlets when he next took them off, or from his finely-engraved sabatons, or wherever. He was likely looking red in the face not just because of his attire, but because it was so richly decorated to – literally – a fault. There were gilded patterns all over his breastplate, and countless precious gems fixed into rings around the wrists of his gauntlets, around the heels and shins of his sabatons, on the faces of the pouldrons in front of his armpits. And the cloak…what was the point of it? Fastened to his pouldrons and flowing down to his heals, dyed dark blue, and embroidered with cloth of gold at the edges and in the form of crowns and those bloody Eden lions that Caladus saw everywhere and had grown sick of by now – Gods, I hate my fucking duty!

Trying to ignore his discomfort, he overheard the current favourite topics as he passed the various groups of people from the nobility and gentry.

“They say the King of Carnia is planning yet another war with Spectrum.” one noble said.

“A second Rainbow War? There are precious few kings who’d dare do that.” another responded.

Meanwhile, a very different sort of conversation was going on between a couple of young men. “I believe Lady Talavin is a widow already.”

“Truly? Count Stendeau’s dead so soon?”

“Indeed. She must’ve given the old man quite the ride as well – there are rumours he died of ‘exhaustion’.”

Caladus left them sniggering behind him. The talk he heard most was about the assassination, which gave him a strange coldness. It was in these gardens, at the nearby Overlord, where Sir Alfrick was slain in front of him. He remembered Princess Luciara’s words: “You could have run faster, or killed the assassin, or guarded the palace better in the first place!”

Perhaps the Chosen One was correct. Perhaps Caladus could have done something. Or perhaps the gardens should have been better guarded...

He looked around at the many palace guards currently present, gilded armour glinting proudly in the sun, halberds shining silver and gold. There were plenty of them today. Come to think of it, there were usually plenty of them out here. Where the fuck were they the other night, then? Sir Alfrick died because of their absence...

“I bet his wife’s a mess.” someone’s voice cut in.

“his wife’s dead, idiot.” Another, somewhat grating. “His daughters will shed a few tears, though, ‘specially since they’re all still maidens.”

“It’s a shame he didn’t pull a few strings,” the first one said, “get them in with Her Grace.”

“Aye, he could’ve just asked ‘er last time he slept in her bed…”

Caladus stopped, quickly turned, and glared at the source of the conversation. Two men, dressed in fine silks and satins, fanning themselves with arrays of feathers each containing every colour of the rainbow.

“Take that back.” Caladus growled, catching both man’s attention. His hand closed tightly around his sword hilt in anger.

“Er, Sir Caladus Dalmark?” The first noble, dressed in green, took a step back, his pale face growing paler still.

The other man, wearing white, wasn’t so quick to cower. “Ah,” he said with too much confidence, “Sir Alfrick’s dog! Doesn’t like the nasty stories, does he?” His companion seemed to have slipped into the crowds of rich people, all too busy discussing the latest gossip to notice Caladus stepping a little closer to this young fool.

“Take that back.” Caladus didn’t like repeating himself, and he’d just done so.

“Take what back?” The young noble snorted. He had a round face, Cal noticed, and an upturned nose to rival the Princess'. “I’ve said nothing but the truth. We all know what they were doing, it’s no lie that His Majesty has never married Her Grace off so that she can keep her beloved Protector as close as she fancies.”

Caladus bit his lip, trying to stop himself from talking again. He knew the words that he was about to speak. Feared them. Walk away, a voice very similar to Sir Alfrick’s was telling him, walk away, leave him be, he isn’t worth your time.

His teeth relinquished their iron grip on his lip, his fingers loosened around his blade, he began to turn away…and the idiot opened his mouth.

“Rest in peace, Sir Alfrick Laydes, Fucker of the Chosen, you lived a lucky life. D’you like that, dog? If you weren’t so tamed by your wife, you might be next in line to–”

“To what?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “To–”

“Go on.”

“…To–”

“Don’t be afraid.” Cal’s hand embraced his sword, and hand and arm and hilt and blade became one. He began to reveal this extension of himself, slowly, showing the shining steel as he gave the young noble a cool look. “Please, continue. I’ll be delighted, I’m sure.”

The man’s irritation, his irritability, his interest, all seemed to have withered away. “I, er, I-I’m sorry, my lord. I take it back...I meant nothing.”

Caladus slipped his blade back into its scabbard. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

He followed Simon past the rest of the bickering swarm, eventually finding the King of Edainia with a small group around him, at an edge of the gardens, overlooking a beach with some activity going on.

“Your Majesty,” a man ahead of Cal announced, “Sir Caladus Eden, Knight of the Lion’s Guard, King’s First–”

“Shut up, you insubordinate!” King Lucien Eden the Second’s booming voice cut over the chatter of the men and women around. “I’m trying to watch, damn it!”

He was leaning over a parapet and glaring balefully in the direction of the beach in the distance. There was a flock of seagulls visibly flying just above the water, with a few organised groups of men standing near them in what Caladus recognised was a battle formation. “Loud white bastards!” he shouted. “We’ll see who’ll be eating who!”

“Fear not, Your Majesty,” a stern-voiced man beside him said, “some of my best crossbowmen are down there.” His head was bald but for a crown of grey hair around the back of his head and covering his temples. He had big, bushy sideburns as well, and a thick moustache in a similar style to the King’s. Dressed in bright yellow and orange, wearing a golden horse hoof on his breast, Caladus had no doubt that this was Count Beauborne, the Warmaster.

“Some of your best?” King Lucien didn’t look at the Warmaster, but his voice alone caused Beauborne to go pink.

“Er, well, Your Majesty, obviously all of my best men are down there, of course, Your Majesty…”

The King didn’t answer, and Beauborne was clearly going to sweat until he did. Another man was sweating beside him. Chambermaster Pailes, of course. Lucky me. Two members of the Crown, present right before me. Oh, how thrilled I was when I also had such an honour as an ignorant little boy.

Another member of the Crown was there, in fact. It really is a special day for me, isn’t it? Standing tall and proud, the Viceroy of Sunset was dressed in a red akaton adorned with golden suns. His belt was studded with emeralds and diamonds, and held both a gold-hilted sword and a matching dagger. His hair was iron-grey, his eyes pale yellow, and a faint scar was present all the way down the left side of his face. If ever there was a physical manifestation of power, Caladus could look no further than Kaston of Sunset, the Courtmaster of Edainia. He was the richest man below the King himself, not to mention he owned just over a third of the land in the entire kingdom. In fact, some said that he was such a powerful man that he was the true King of Edainia in all but name, ruling the realm while mad old Lucien stayed up in his palace, shouting at seagulls. Usually the Viceroy was down in Umbra, where the Crown and other forms of government were run. But even governing the realm wasn’t as important as the Chosen One’s birthday celebrations. It isn’t like wasting our time up here will mean that any of us are going to lose our lives or livelihoods, is it?

The flock of seagulls began to fly away from the shore, many of their number falling dead into the sea. The crossbowmen must have loosed, but Cal was too far away to see it clearly.

“Haha!” King Lucien bellowed. “That’ll teach them! I’ll enjoy having one of them for dinner.”

“Your Majesty,” said thin and hard-to-notice Chambermaster Pailes, “I fear that most of them have landed in the sea...”

“Then get some bloody boats out there!” the King shouted back, his face going red. He turned to one of his pages, who was standing dutifully nearby. “Well don’t just stand there, boy! Tell the Shipmaster!”

“Your Majesty,” Pailes interrupted, “surely there are better uses for our navy–”

“Nonsense!” King Lucien smacked his Chambermaster with the back of his hand, leaving a red mark on the other man’s small, pale face. “They’ll be honoured to feed their king!” He looked back at the page. “Now begone, boy!” The boy nodded and ran off. The King chuckled. “That’s the spirit,” he said to Pailes, “he’s been given his command, and he’ll use every ounce of his energy to fulfil his duty, even if it kills the poor blighter.”

Sir Caladus cleared his throat. “Your Majesty...” he started.

“Ah, Sir Caladus Dalmark!” the King declared heartily. Then he roared to the other nobles and gentlemen busy bickering in the rest of the gardens: “Begone, you other subjects, or I’ll have the lot of you flogged!” He shouted the last word with a strange buzz of excitement.

The other wealthy men and women left immediately, without question or complaint, as did all the servants, save Simon and another, and those around the King other than Chamberlain Pailes, who was wiping his sweating face with a cloth. The Viceroy of Sunset bowed to the King, then nodded his head to Cal and smiled wryly. “I am sorry for your loss, Sir Caladus.” he said simply before he departed. Count Beauborne bowed to His Majesty before walking away with a notable limp.

Eventually only Caladus, Lucimon, Pailes, the King and the servant were left in the gardens, other than the guards, standing still some distance away.

Caladus noticed that the servant was holding something long, wrapped in white silk. It looked like it was probably a sword, and Caladus suspected it was for him.

“Right,” King Lucien said, “let’s get straight to business.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Walk with me, Sir Caladus.” he said.

Pailes, Simon and the servant carrying the silk-wrapped item all maintained a couple of metres behind Caladus and the King. There was a disturbing lack of guards nearby, Cal noticed with unease. There were rows of them here and there, but none that were close. It would take just one Immortal, or any skilled assassin, and the King might die. And that’s an utterly mortifying prospect, Caladus mused sarcastically to himself.

“So, what do you think of my beautiful daughter,” King Lucien asked after a while, “the Chosen One?”

“A liar is one of the worst things a man can be,” Alfrick had once said to Caladus, “they cannot be trusted by others, and in the end they don’t even trust themselves with the truth. I’d rather die honest than live life a liar.”

“I find her to be utterly spoilt and entitled,” Caladus answered, “as if she's already saved us all.”

King Lucien chuckled without mirth. “You are brave to be honest to a king,” he said, “and honest to tell him the truth.”

I thought that was the point of honesty. “You flatter me, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, well, I’m more concerned about the bloody fact that it’s true, sir.” He didn’t seem very happy about such a fact at all.

“I am sure she will learn humility in time, Your Majesty...”

The back of the King’s hand took him utterly by surprise.

After the smack, during the sharp sting that followed, Caladus rubbed his cheek as he took a few shocked steps back. He felt his rage building up, and his other hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

“Don’t revoke your honesty now, sir!” King Lucien roared. He was a terrifying man when enraged. “Or do you honestly believe that she will learn any such lessons ‘in time’?”

“For...forgive me, Your Majesty. I fear only a very harsh lesson will stop her being so...pretentious.” This was the most bizarre conversation he’d ever had: being ordered to tell the truth to a tyrannical king rather than shower him with undeserved flattery.

“I agree, Sir Caladus.” The King kept on walking, and Cal walked beside him. “She has to be taught a very harsh lesson indeed. She needs experience, Sir Caladus. Hard, cold experience.” He took a deep breath in, and blew out slowly. Caladus realised His Majesty was smiling faintly, distantly. “I had some hard, cold experience myself,” King Lucien said wistfully, “back when I was just eighteen years of age, not yet in line for the throne. I was an absolute milksop back then, and completely arrogant and stuck-up. A total arse of a man.

“But then I fought my first battle, leading a group of three hundred foot against twice my number in treacherous rebels.” He growled the word ‘rebels’ with utter contempt. “They had better tactics than me. I just charged in there like a fool, and all my men got hacked to pieces.”

“All of them?” Caladus asked, stunned. “All killed?”

“All of my men, yes. But they weren’t all my men. When things went badly, half of them turned their coats and betrayed me, the bastards.” He chuckled. “I can laugh about it now, but I was in quite the situation back then, with just me, my thick-plated armour and the biggest sword I could find.”

“However did you survive, Your Majesty?”

“I had to kneel in front of their leader,” the King said darkly, “and swear to never take up arms against them again. I was made their prisoner, and dragged around for months before I finally managed to escape.”

“What happened then?” And what relevance does this have to your daughter?

King Lucien smiled proudly, showing a couple of gold teeth. “I got a much bigger army together, then surrounded and butchered the lot of those rebel scum.”

An inspiration to us all. “I thought you wanted honesty, Your Majesty?”

“Honesty in others, sir. I need men I can trust and rely on. Loyal, honest men. But I was a prince and commander then, and now I’m a king. Besides, did anyone know of that pledge I was forced to make? Hmm?” He looked at the three men behind him. Lucimon shook his head, mouth shivering without rest. The servant looked down at the ground, clasping the cloth-wrapped item tightly. Pailes wiped a bit more sweat off his brow. “No, they didn’t.” King Lucien continued. “Anyway, that’s all by the by, really. What I’m saying is that I became stronger for that experience. More grateful for the comfort I had after being dragged around in chains all winter. More careful and cunning after my rashness saw my defeat. More humble after being forced to bend the knee to a faecal-smelling farmer from Cutney, and swear an oath I shamed myself to speak.

“My daughter has been spoilt all her life. I know that it is partly my fault, but I always had a weakness for her mother, and she looks like the golden-haired, blue-eyed version of her...” He was quiet, deep in thought for a minute, and Caladus kept the silence. Of all the things he was, King Lucien Eden wasn’t a hateful father. Alfrick said that he was actually rather well-meaning. But he wasn’t a good father, either. His wife, Queen Elayne, was spoilt by him as well. When she died giving birth to Luciara, the King wasn’t seen for over a month. When it turned out that the baby the queen had given her life to bring into the world was the one meant to save it, as declared by the Prophet Achilles Seriana, it was no surprise that His Majesty put even more effort into making her the most entitled woman in the history of mankind than he did with Elayne. But why was he admitting this, and to Caladus of all people? If he understood all the faults in his daughter, then why not fix them himself? Why did he persist to make them worse?

“Anyway,” the King of Edainia suddenly said in a much jollier tone, “the reason I have summoned you is because I have decided to send Princess Luciara to Fort Farseer – the home of the Prophet, you see – and you’re going to escort her.”

Caladus stopped walking, and his mouth opened. “What?”

“What, ‘Your Majesty’, I think you’ll find.”

“Er...Your Majesty, I...”

“You don’t have to thank me,” King Lucien said, clapping him on the back, “I’m sure you’ve wanted to get out on the road and travel for years now, and I’ve decided that now’s the perfect time.”

“I, er, I can’t.”

The King blinked for a moment. Caladus heard someone, probably Pailes, breathe in sharply. “You can’t?” King Lucien asked sternly.

“I fear not, Your Majesty. For my duty is to stay here and protect you.”

“Ha!” His Majesty declared with a smile. “Never fear, Sir Caladus, no, for your duty is with her! I shall name you Protector of the Chosen, at least until we have a Choosing.”

Caladus’ heart almost jumped into his mouth. “What?” he squeaked, despite the usual gruffness in his voice.

“Excited already! There’s my man!”

“N-no, I...the responsibility, the-the burden...”

“You’ll manage, my friend! You’re the best, you know, in the entire Lion’s Guard!”

The best... “But what of Sir Ralph Wronghand...Sir Lybar the Lionclaw...Sir Warrick the Swordbreaker?”

“All going as well, to make sure the Princess is safe.”

“But surely, with all the dangers around, one of us capable fighters must be by Your Majesty’s side to defend you?”

“Have you been paying attention?” the King asked bluntly. He cares more for his daughter’s life than he does his own, Caladus realised. Do I have that much love for my family?

“Er, but I have a wife.” Whom I hate, and who hates me.

“Don’t worry, heh-heh-heh, she won’t be going anywhere while you’re gone. She’ll be perfectly safe and ready for your return.” It just gets worse and worse.

“But I have a son.” Who I barely see, and care about even less, and is growing away from me with every passing day.

“I’ll take him as a ward then. Write that down, Pailes.” Fuuuuuuuck...

“But I...I...” What else could he say? What else could he possibly say to stop himself from going, and what price would he be willing to pay?

It was then when a ludicrous idea came to mind. He thought of the King’s slap, of his wife’s berating him for his desire for a better world, of Princess Luciara’s selfish entitlement. And he thought of Sir Alfrick Laydes’ words:

“I’d rather die honest than live life a liar.”

“The ends do not justify the means; rather, they are defined by them.”

“You’re the best, Cal.”

“You’re the best...”

“...the best...”

The best, but not the most loyal. And certainly not the most honest. What were the ends, here? Rewards for his loyalty? No, he thought to himself, I’m not loyal. It’s a lie. And...and it surely isn’t justifiable to take rewards from a man who oppresses his people with an iron fist. I’m just helping him build the world that he wants to see and I can hardly abide to live in. No, I won’t be silent any longer.

He fell to his knees in front of the tyrant. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if you wish for me to go on this mission, then there’s something very important you must know about me.”

“Oh, you’re not Setch, are you?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

King Lucien sighed in relief. “Very well,” he said, “what is it, Sir Caladus? Speak truthfully, and I–”

“I hate you.” Caladus glared right into King Lucien’s now stunned eyes. “I hate your family, your wrongfully-gained power, your whole position in life as a blathering, moronic old tyrant who tells others what to do because you were born rightly, and they wrongly.” He couldn’t stop now. He was impassioned. I’ve said this much, now I’ll say it all. “I despise this kingdom, and any other kingdom, and its nobility and gentry disgust me. People who eat food in their palaces and castles, who play their games like children while there are people starving in the streets just because one of their ancestors wasn’t cousins with a great man. I hate the lot of you, the fucking lot of you, and I will happily see a republic rise from your long-anticipated ashes, you wretched royal bastard.”

There was a long pause. He’s going to kill me, Caladus thought, with a peculiar sense of relief. He’s going to have me cut to pieces for what I believe in. So be it. I’d rather die honest than live life a liar...

Deep inside, he felt proud of himself. At last, the truth, after all these years I can finally be rid of the chains of–

King Lucien Eden rocked his head back and roared with laughter.

Caladus was shocked, confused and, most of all, embarrassed. He’d just professed his greatest values to a tyrant in defiance, and that tyrant was just laughing. He turned and looked at the others that were present. Simon’s eyes were wide open, as was his shivering mouth. Chambermaster Pailes wasn’t sweating anymore; he had simply gone white. The King’s servant was looking very nervously at the ground, blinking quickly as if to see if he was dreaming. Dead silence, except for King Lucien the Second’s loud, booming laughter.

“And yet you are loyal!” His Majesty cried jovially. “And yet I couldn’t have a man who’d lay down his life for us quicker!” As his laughter began to die down, he said, “We need more men like you, Sir Caladus.” What? More republican knights? “You’re the perfect Protector, don’t you see?”

“Er, no, Your Majesty, I–”

“And still using the correct way to address us, too! Wonderful! You’re the man we need! You see, Pailes, I told you! I bloody told you so!” He let out more booms of laughter. “You’ll never find a more loyal servant to the House of Eden than Sir Caladus Dalmark, Protector of the Chosen!”

Caladus didn’t really know what to say. He couldn’t help but look up at the King, laughing away at the whole charade.

“Now,” said King Lucien after his laughter had once more died out, “bring forth the sword, boy.”

So it was a sword. What a surprise. The servant came forward and unwrapped the cloth concealing the weapon. Caladus got to his feet as the silk was taken off and the sword was handed to the King. It was an arming sword, the blade residing in a white and gold scabbard. The pommel was a lion’s head with a diamond in its mouth, and the cross-guard was the same but smaller and with a lion head at each end, carrying pearls in their mouths instead. The entire hilt was gilded, and full of all sorts of patterns and designs; some of roses and other flowers, some of bees and trees, and some of lions and even dragons. The King drew the sword from its scabbard, and the blade shone magnificently in the light of the sun above. It almost had a light of its own.

“It’s a beautiful weapon.” Caladus remarked. Beautiful, but probably horrendously unbalanced.

“This is Lightrend,” King Lucien said, “the sword used by Martyn Dragonheart to slay Thorwyn Dragonclaw in the Battle of the Dragonflow. I’ve given it a new hilt, but the blade shines as brightly as ever. Treat it well, Sir Caladus.”

“I will, Your Majesty.” And it’ll be a shame if I were to lose such a cumbersome-looking weapon in some skirmish on our journey...
“And if you fail to bring it back as it is,” King Lucien said with a menacingly friendly smile, as if he’d just read Cal’s mind, “I’ll chop your damn head off, you wretched republican bastard. Isn’t it interesting how similar the opposite view can sometimes sound? Now go, and prepare for the journey. You leave in three days’ time.”